User blog comment:Brigadier Barty/Redwall Wars: A Deadly Turn/@comment-2246928-20150429212034

Virago strode down a row near the two quietly conversing slave squirrel and vole. The weasel sniffed, her whip curled about her wrist and paw like a snake as her eyes scanned the slaves tirelessly. Noticing a look from the fox, Azul, she stared right back, daring the vulpine to give her a single dirty look.

She remembered that vixen, back when Galdrim had slain the fox's captain and seized the crew. Few of them remained now, but somehow Azul seemed to have always managed to pull through.

A fighter, that one. Like many of these slaves, new or old. It unnerved her. She despised it. Slaves were meant to be utterly servile, witless, broken and pleading. Not like this. Not with fire in their eyes, and continuous mutters and schemes behind her and the crew's backs. She hadn't been down here in a while since Cawn took charge of the slaves, but from what she saw, that stoat wasn't doing good enough of a job.

Picking up an uttered curse, she swung around and slashed the whip across a gray-squirrel's face before strolling away, further down a new row of oarslaves, her heart, twisted by seasons serving aboard a sadistic crew and dulled by countless acts of violence and hatred committed during her service at sea, beating worriedly.

These proud new beasts, those rebellious old ones... She needed to deal with them... Before it was too late.